


When You're Not

by alex_kade



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt, Male Friendship, Platonic Life Partners, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5501975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_kade/pseuds/alex_kade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're both bad influences on each other, no one denies that, but it's always 002 keeping 003 in check. Saul is the rational one. Saul is the calm one. Saul is the one who keeps Gregory from slipping over that edge. That's what everyone believes, anyway.</p><p>But Saul knows the real truth. They were all terribly, horribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You're Not

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No Rest for the Wingless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/816184) by [Only_1_Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth). 



> Idek. Sometimes I watch sad, emotionally-heavy indie films, then they bleed into my fics. 
> 
> Warnings for those who have depression and suicidal thoughts.
> 
> I'm still playing in Truth's Wingfic universe and dabbling with her Gregory Hind and Saul Mason, but this whole terrible spin is completely made up by me based on a loose description of Saul that she sent me. His characterization in this fic is an even more loose interpretation of that.

_"What would you have done if I hadn't been here?"_

 

It was almost a game between the two of them now. A twisted, morbid game between a borderline sociopath and the clinically depressed where the sociopath would leave a gun in plain sight, then would sit back and watch, waiting to see what would happen. It was a horrible game of Russian Roulette, full of hopeful, trepid desires of a final release with each pull of the trigger, only to discover that every bullet in the chamber was nothing more than a blank. There would be a stillness, then, an emotional void as the brain processed what had happened, how close it had come to never being able to process anything again. Then there would come the relief, the realization that death was not actually the ultimate desire at all, only the fear of it, the shocking understanding of its cold and bitter finality, and how very close he had come to actually embracing it. 

 

_"I don't know."_

 

He honestly didn't. He had stood at the top of the MI6 building after his first failed mission, feeling nothing at all and wondering why. Twelve people had died because of his failure. Men, women, children - all the same to him. He should've been angry, or sad, or afraid, anything but the numbness that was consuming him, wrapping him alive with putrid, noxious tape, leaving him mummified in a dark and lonely tomb to die slowly of his emotional gangrene. How he had managed to find the stamina to lift himself to the top of the building was beyond him. Perhaps the thought that he would never have to do it again was what had driven him.

Just to fall. For an Angel it would be the perfect, most ironic death, controlled and deliberate. To know he had the means to save his life sprouting from his own body, yet choosing not to use it, there was a strength of wills in that. Guns were too fast, too easy; pills were too kind, too gentle; death by blade was too painful, too long, and had too much potential to go wrong with the slightest miscalculation of the cut. To fall, though, to feel the wind rushing past his face, slipping through feathers that screamed to spread and lift him back on high, to ignore every fibre of instinct in his body as the ground leaped up to greet him - that would be the final thrill to shatter his numbed state, to wake him up to the world just long enough to feel like he belonged in it before he would wave it his goodbye. He wanted it. He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, and he reached for it with greedy, outstretched fingers.

It was Gregory who had caught those fingers, gripped tightly to the desperate hand, pulled him up in place of the wings that Saul had refused to spread, and nearly fell, himself, dragged down by a weight that went far beyond just a physical burden. It was only when he'd let go, dropping Saul gracelessly to the sidewalk, cursing him out and beating him senseless for his stupidity that Saul  _felt_ something, felt the golden, ambrosia relief that washed over him at the simple notion that he was still alive. He was alive, and twelve people were not because of him, would never know this type of relief, this appreciation for life; and that single thought served as the jagged dagger that would cut away his bindings. In the process it sliced him, too, long and deep, and he bled tears for hours that night in the solitude of his flat, draining him of strength and filling it with guilt and pain. But he slept. And he dreamed. And agonizing as it was, it was still better than feeling nothing at all.

Gregory was outside his door the next morning with a breakfast of Everclear and a container full of hash topped off with spicy chili and cheese. It was disgusting going down, twice as bad coming back up, but the spice and the acid and the alcoholic burn seemed to act as an odd sort of poultice, drawing out the anguish in his soul and purging it down into the depths of filth beneath the city streets where all such rotten shame belonged. 

They didn't talk about what had happened, not on the roof and not on the mission. Saul ate and drank and puked while Gregory watched on in silence, a patiently annoyed expression permanently plastered on his face, and when it was over, he simply grabbed his container and headed towards the door. It was there that he had paused, hand on the knob, turning his head only the slightest bit so his voice would carry back over his shoulder.

 

_"What would you have done if I hadn't been here?"_

_"I don't know."_

 

No questions, no comments, not even a nod, just a shutting of the door, and it was then that Saul  _knew_. It was clear as new glass on a summer day - Gregory Hind, the self-appointed recluse of the double-ohs, the dangerous, temperamental loner,  _understood._  He wasn't like Saul, not to the same extent, but he walked along a similar line and had found a way to keep himself just on the right side of it. Exactly _h_ _ow_ he managed to do that became the objective to Saul's life mission, causing him to shadow and pester and thoroughly exasperate the man until he finally and begrudgingly allowed him into his one-person circle (but not until after many violent encounters meant to ineffectually frighten Saul away). 

They said Gregory had gotten better since, a little less violent, a little less secluded, a little less reckless in the field; that having a friend, having Saul, was keeping him alive.

Nobody knew that it was Gregory keeping Saul alive.

It had been years since he'd first jumped. Years since 002 and 003 had formed an unlikely alliance and a far stronger friendship. Years of fighting with each other and fighting for each other, however the situation warranted. Years of bad days for both of them. Years of jumping whenever it got to be too much.

Saul had lost count of how many times he'd jumped. All he knew was that somehow Gregory was always there to catch him when he did.

 

_"What would you have done if I hadn't been here?"_

_"I don't know."_

 

Saul took a deep breath and wished he could wipe an obnoxious tear from his eye, but tears were for people who could feel. He  _should_ be feeling something. If there was ever a time where he should've been able to keep himself from fully shutting down, it was supposed to be right then, that moment when he was certain that the only best friend he'd ever had, the only person who ever really  _knew_ him, was dying somewhere in the heart of the very building he was standing on. There was too much damage, too much goddamn damage, and everybody knew it. Gregory had saved him countless times, and now he was the one leaving Saul behind, and all he could feel was a tasteless, senseless  _nothing_.

Then he was falling.

Feeling the wind and seeing the concrete and holding onto his tight control to keep his treacherous wings from fanning out behind him.

His hand reached forward, seeking an opportunity to see his friend again - if not in this life, then surely in the next, because Gregory would catch that hand. One way or another, he always caught it.

Gregory always,  _always_ , grabbed his hand.

The hand that always,  _always_ reached for death and never seemed to find it. 

Because how could it when Gregory's hand was always there to take its place?

The thought was like one of Gregory's strong and angry punches to his face, waking him up to the world around him better than a straight shot of adrenaline to the heart ever could. Powerful wings snapped out, pulling him up just short of his introduction to a swift and messy end. The sudden extension of his life brought him no relief this time, though, his mind swimming with too much urgency to focus in on just how close he'd come that time to meeting death. The numbness, however, was gone, evicted without mercy and replaced with not anger or grief, nor any sense of actual hope, but just a driving need to  _try._ Because Gregory deserved at least that much of him. If nothing else, Saul could at _least_ give him that.

His mind narrowed down to that singular thought, he nearly flew into Medical, only the narrow hallways preventing him from literally floating in on beating wings.

"002, you can't-" a nurse began, stepping into his path.

Saul backed her into a wall and held her there for a moment, talking to her but addressing all around them.

"Try to make me leave, and I'll remove your kneecaps before you can even blink."

They let him pass, didn't stop him as he strode down the hall towards the ER, made a small space for him to reach through the flurry of Medical staff who were trying their best to keep Gregory alive, and ignored the way he took up his friend's limp, bloody hand.

There were no words uttered, no silent prayers said, no tears spilled or desperate pleas made even when it seemed all hope was lost. Gregory was coding, yet still Saul sat stoic and silent, his energy pulsing down his arm, into his fingers, through thin, fragile veins that throbbed against Gregory's palm.  _I'm here_ , it beat out in a comforting rhythm.  _I've got you._

And three days later, because it took that long for Gregory to wake up even  _with_ his enhanced Angel healing, Saul greeted unfocused cobalt eyes with a familiar question:

"What would you have done if I hadn't been here?"

Gregory stared at him for a long moment in utter confusion before he was finally able to make his brain function enough to answer. "I don't know," he part-groaned, part-whispered. "Prob'ly terr'ized doctors...'til you came t'see me."

Saul barked out a laugh and scrubbed a stray tear off his cheek with the back of his hand before placing it down on Gregory's, giving his fingers a squeeze. There it was, finally, the feeling, the relief that flooded his system when so very close to death, only this time it hadn't been his own. It had been for the both of them, for knowing if one had gone, the other would've been sure to follow. If Gregory had died, it would've been on Saul, it would've been his fault for not being there, for not taking his friend's hand from the grip of death; and the mere thought of that stung him so badly he could hardly breathe. He had come that close,  _that close_ _,_ to killing his own best friend and personal savior.

 

_"What would you have done if I hadn't been here?"_

 

He _did_ know. He would've fallen, and he would've died, but Gregory _had_ been there, and continued to be there ever since. Why? Because deep down, Gregory had honestly been looking for someone to anchor him to the world more than just his beloved dog, and he'd found it in Saul. Saul, as it turned out, needed the same, someone to watch over, someone to need him, someone to keep in check who would, in turn, do the same for him. That was the secret. That was how to stay on the right side of the line, and as long as Gregory Hind was still in the world, Saul would do his best to stay in it with him.

"No more," he whispered, a subtle promise that Gregory seemed to understand instantly and perfectly because he'd seen the tear, and Saul never cried unless he'd just survived a jump. He nodded sharply, accepting the promise without question or doubt, then simply closed his eyes again, relaxing into his pillow, his entire body melting into the bed as if a giant weight had just been lifted from his chest, and allowed himself to slide back into a blissful, healing sleep. Saul got comfortable, too, slouching himself into the chair, still clinging to his friend's hand, the touch a promise that he wasn't going anywhere, not by choice, never again. 

And as he watched Gregory take in one breath after another, confirming he was alive, he erased the question of, _"What would you have done...?"_ from his memory. He didn't need to dwell, he didn't need to cling, he didn't need to run it around his psyche in endless, useless circles. He knew his answer, and terrible as it was, it wasn't an issue now. Not anymore, because Gregory would always be there for him, and he would always be there for Gregory, and they would stave off death together for as long as they could. And when the time came in which they couldn't? Well, then there was always a party waiting for Fallen Angels in Hell where the two of them would reign supreme.

~The End~


End file.
